


Gray

by SLWalker



Series: Arch to the Sky [73]
Category: due South
Genre: Arch to the Sky, Chicago (1998), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-08
Updated: 2011-10-08
Packaged: 2017-10-24 10:07:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/262257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLWalker/pseuds/SLWalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>August 1998: Turnbull puts on his duty uniform for the first time since moving to Chicago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gray

**Author's Note:**

  * For [exbex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/exbex/gifts).



"God, I remember that," Ray said, and he couldn't quite quit grinning. Just the memory of pulling on his old patrol uniform, long before any of this was even a glimmer of a possibility in the future. Before he was a detective, before he was even sure he was cut out to be a _cop_ , back when he'd had nothing but a desire to prove himself and determination to live on.

Ren glanced up, something kind of far away in his eyes, then looked back down to where he was buttoning the plain gray duty shirt. "I do, as well."

"Not quite so long ago for you, though," Ray said, with a little smile. That got him another glance; more distant, something sad, something warm, all at once.

"It feels it, sometimes," Ren replied, and tucked the shirt in neatly. He was handling security detail with a number of other officers for some visiting dignitary; Thatcher hadn't wanted him in a ceremonial role, so other imported Mounties were gonna do the red dress uniform, and Renfield had to haul out his old duty gear.

Ray let the silence fall as he watched; plain black belt, then the heavy gun-belt over it, then the keepers so it wouldn't slide. Every motion was slow. Not the unpracticed kinda slow, though. Something else. Like a ghost, going through the motions of a life he wasn't living anymore.

It was enough to make Ray quit smiling mostly, though not entirely; he could picture Ren when he was still in Saskatchewan, hauling it on every evening, peeling out of it every morning, twisting at the waist after the weight of the belt was off of his hips and cracking his back.

Ray used to do all that, too.

Ren holstered his .38, after checking the cylinder, then snapped the thumb-break strap over it. Checked his speed-loaders, put 'em back in their holders. Checked his cuffs, where they were positioned at the small of his back. Straightened up his collar, then picked up his hat. "This should only take the afternoon, Ray, if you had wanted to go out afterwards."

"I'd like that," Ray said, standing up and stepping over, just to give Ren a look up and down, reaching out to pluck a stray thread off of the uniform. It was a simple getup; patches on the shoulders, but not even a badge over the heart. A radio microphone strung back behind Ren's back from his portable, and clipped to the shoulder.

Nothing so flashy as the dress uniform. Nothing so elaborate or complicated. A working cop's daily gear.

Ray slid his hand over one of the patches, speaking softly: "It suits you."

A muscle jumped in Ren's jaw, but he didn't answer aloud. Just leaned forward, nuzzling his nose against Ray's, eyes closed.

Ray reached up, wrapped a hand around the back of Ren's head, held on and left it at that.


End file.
